Episode Details

Labor Secretary Marty Walsh says he’s ready to step up to the plate and help end Major League Baseball’s lockout.

My advice to Marty, as former labor secretary to the current one: Stay away from baseball. I wouldn’t touch another baseball labor dispute if Babe Ruth asked me in person.  

In 1995, the owners and players were at loggerheads, too. I tried to mediate.

Bill Clinton (on phone): “Bobby, this is Bill. How you doing on the strike?” Translated: What the hell’s going on? The World Series may be canceled for the first time in a century – and on my watch – unless you settle this thing soon.

Me: “We’re doing a lot of talking. Players want free agency, owners want a salary cap. The only way to give players free agency and not have the stars all end up in the wealthiest clubs is for the big clubs to share some of their revenues with the smaller ones, maybe through a tax on team payrolls. Each side would have to give a bit. That’s what we’re working on now.” Translated: I’m getting nowhere.

Bill was eager to get involved. He smelled a deal. He wanted to be savior of the national pastime. He had heard that the two sides were in Washington. “Why don’t we just call them over to the White House and see how far we can get?” he said.

Hours later, Bill, Al Gore, and I were in the Roosevelt Room with Bud Selig, who represented the owners; Don Fehr, the players; and the other owners and players from the two bargaining committees. The owners were middle-aged, gray and corporate. The players were big, hulking young men who looked stiff and awkward in white shirts, ties, and jackets. All sat motionless around the giant mahogany table.

Down the corridor and around the corner, the White House press room was crowded with reporters and cameras, anticipating a story about how the President settled the baseball strike.

Al began ponderously. “As I understand it, the players don’t want their salaries to be capped, and the owners say a salary cap is the only way to keep the smaller teams competitive. Now, if the owners would agree to tax themselves so that the larger teams would subsidize the smaller teams, we’d be halfway home. And if the players would agree to some sort of ceiling on their individual contracts, that would get us the other half. S-o-o-o …” Gore seemed to be talking to five-year-olds. “The real question here is how far both sides are willing to come in order to strike a fair balance. Am I correct?”

No answer. One of the young pitchers cleared his throat. “Mr. President, Mr. Vice President, I love baseball. We all love baseball. This isn’t really a dispute over money.” He looked intently around the table. “Hell, I’d be willing to play the game for $3 million a year if I get some respect.”

I couldn’t repress a cough.

After two hours, we were still nowhere. “Let’s take a break,” Bill said quietly. “Maybe if we just talk informally we can make some progress.”

Bill was an eternal optimist, convinced that there was always a deal lying out there somewhere. It’s what made him a super-salesman: He was absolutely certain that every single person he met – Newt Gingrich, Yasir Arafat, whoever – wanted to find common ground. It was simply a matter of discovering where it was.

If the owners would agree to binding arbitration, it would be over. But they wouldn’t budge.

Bill and I went with Selig to another office. Bill sat down next to him on a couch, and commenced the move. Bill’s face was six inches away from Selig’s. Bill’s arm rested on the back of the couch behind Selig’s head so that his hand reached around to Selig’s other shoulder. It was full-intensity Bill Clinton. I was amazed Selig didn’t melt on the spot.

“Look, Bud,” Bill purred in soft southern. “You guys can make millions.